


Doctor Doctor, Gimme the News (I got a bad case of lovin' you)

by Cannes



Category: IT (2017), IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Aged-Up Character(s), Doctor/Patient, Homophobic Language, Idiots in Love, Internalized Homophobia, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-06
Updated: 2020-05-04
Packaged: 2020-11-26 10:16:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,371
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20928581
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cannes/pseuds/Cannes
Summary: Comedian Richie Tozier is, without a doubt, a world-class master of fucking-up.Emergency Room Doctor Eddie Kaspbrak is, without a doubt, a world-class master of hiding in the closet.Things are about to change when the two meet in a New York ER.





	1. No pill's gonna cure my ill

**Author's Note:**

> I haven't posted a Fanfic since I was fifteen. Enjoy it? Hate it? 
> 
> I don't know where this is going exactly, but here we are. 
> 
> Excuse any typographical erros.

Richie Tozier was, without a doubt, a world-class master of fucking-up.

Most people saw funny-man Richie "Trashmouth" Tozier as being successful; he was an internationally known stand-up comedian, and accredited radio host. But most of that success road on the coattails of him having messed something up. Hell, some of his funniest bits, the ones that he himself had written, originated from his woes of failure.

Now, sitting in the Emergency Room in some hospital in New York, Richie didn't really consider the circumstances that led him to this position to be a fuck-up, per se. But, he was already running a joke in his mind for a future show. His agent/ handler/ B.F.F Stanley Uris, a lanky, curly haired nervous kind of man, who was currently whispering urgently in his phone to reschedule Richie's show for tomorrow, and then the concurrent shows for the next two weeks because he was booked everyday for a solid month, would beg to differ.

Even before Richie had said a word, before the _incident_, Stan was stammering over himself and other bodies to get to the tall dark and dumb comedian so that he could promptly put a lid on the trash can that was Richie's mouth.

He was unsuccessful, obviously, given the dried blood on Richie's face and shirt and jacket. And don't get him started on the slew of news articles that were starting to pop up all over the Internet. Stan's last, very brief phone call was with some producer from CNN trying to get details on the next big, scandalous hate crime.

Richie had ducked the first punch that was thrown into his face, but the second one came as a surprise as he righted himself, and he had hit the side of the town car he was about to get into with enough force to scuff the paint with his watch.

Younger Richie wouldn't have been satisfied until he had thrown a punch of his own, but twenty-nine year old Richie was content to be led into the car, leaving security to handle the heckler as he bled profusely from his probably broken nose.

Sure, it was 2017, but homophobia had been around for a long time, and some things just took time to die. Richie couldn't help himself that he was impatient.

Stan ended the call he was on and leaned back in his chair, sighing. "This could have all been avoided-"

"-had I just shut my damn mouth. Yeah, yeah." Richie rolled his eyes dramatically to look at Stan. "But in case you forgot, it's kind of my job to take jabs here and there."

"On stage, Rich! Your job is to take jabs on stage, or the radio, not within arm's length of some hyper-masculine homophobe."

"You don't want me to protect my honor, Stan?"

"I don't-didn't want you to end up in the ER, Rich. But look where we are." Stan was a quiet man. He had a monotone way of phrasing things. But as he gestured to the entirety that was the hospital waiting room with one hand, calm tone and casually scrolling through his e-mails with the other, Richie knew he was screaming on the inside.

"Does it really matter if I make some closeted fag uncomfortable on stage or off?" Stan cringed at Richie's choice of words. Richie knew that he hated the way he used the hate-word so flippantly. "It's not me or what I say that they're mad at, really. I should know." _I was one of them_, Richie thought.

He had been in the same hyper-masculine_ I'm-not-gay _boat for a long time. He knew how it floated and the type of thoughts that powered its sails. Richie never hated people who were gay, he just hated himself for being one of them. Growing up in a small town with small minds does that to a person. It took a lot of long nights talking to his own demons and college before he would accept who he was. Richie _understood _the other side of the gay argument, which is why he could never leave well-enough alone when he saw himself in someone else who wasn't quite there yet.

Stan hummed thoughtfully as he grabbed the broken glasses off of Richie's face. He thoroughly cleaned the smudge of blood that was dotting between the cracks with a tissue. Once satisfied, he replaced them on the other man's face, holding the frames a second longer than necessary.

The way he was looking at Richie made it look like he wanted to say something, but Richie's name was called by the nurse to take them back.

Stand sighed and shook his head as they got up and went.

Richie shrugged and grabbed his jacket.

**oooooOOOooooo**

The thing about hospitals was that they were similar to black holes in the way that time kind of just, _stopped_ being a thing.

If it felt like you were waiting for an hour, it was probably only five minutes. It was just the way it was, time moving slower in a hospital while everything worked at hyper-speed around you. That's why it was lost on Richie why if time was so slow while you were inside the white-walls, by the time you got out you had lost several hours. It just didn't make any sense.

For Richie, being in this time-limbo void was enough to drive him crazy. It made his skin itch and his muscle aches to move more than usual.

It was on the sixth or seventh time that Richie had gotten up to pace that Stan had to excuse himself to make his calls. Richie knew that his pacing was making Stan's eye twitch, but he just couldn't make himself sit still.

Richie's head peeked out of the curtain to watch Stan walk down the linoleum hallway just a little bit away, phone in hand, probably searching for reception in the cement walls.

Richie scanned the hallway and made eye contact with a nurse who blushed pink all across the bridge of her nose. Richie drew his head back to his own holding cell, but he could hear the squeaking sound of rubber soles hitting the floor, stopping right outside of Richie's curtain where the nurses' station was. 

"Do you know who that is!?" The nurse was whispering, but she was doing a terrible job.

"Uh, that's Mr. Tozier. Here for a possible broken nose."

"No - Cathy, _no_. Not his chart. Do you know _who_ he is?"

"No." The other nurse, _Cathy_ sounded as interested in the discussion as Richie would be if someone came up to him and casually started talking about the stock market. 

Nurse #1, _Not-Cathy,_ sighed. "That," there was a pause, and Richie could feel her pointing at his curtain. "Is Richie Tozier. Comedian Richie Tozier. Ex-Kiss-FM radio host, Richie Tozier?

There was silence, and he knew that Cathy did _not_ know who Richie Tozier was. Which was perfectly fine with the man himself. Richie didn't have an ego about being recognized. In fact, he kind-of preferred when he could be in society with a broken nose in peace.

There was a huff and then, "I'm not really into comedy."

"Oh my god, Cathy. You - "

A man broke into the conversation by clearing his throat. There was the briefest of pauses, just enough to let the ladies switch gears and then, "Can I have comedian-Kiss FM radio host-total heart throb-Richard Tozier's chart, Mary?" The man said "heart throb" with a nasal, valley girl impression that had Richie smirking.

Mary took a heavy sigh and all but whined, "You know who he is, right, Dr. Kaspbrak?"

"I actually went to one of his shows last year." Was the doctor's distant response. He was probably reading Richie's chart, looking over his information, the reason for his visit, excreta.

Richie could almost hear Nurse Mary's squeal of delight that came just as Richie's stomach knotted painfully. Sure, he'd been well-known for the better part of a decade know, but he still got nervous about people _knowing_ of him. Especially with blood caked around his nose and upper lip.

Really, sometimes a guy just wanted to have a broken nose in peace, dammit. 

"I am so jealous."

There was a brief, disconnected hum before Dr. Kaspbrak casually asked, "Do you want me to try and get you an autograph before or after I set Mr. Tozier's nose back in place for him?"

Nurse Mary sighed again and Richie could hear how hard she must have plopped down in her chair by the way the air rushed from the cushion and the wheels dragged across the floor. "OK OK, I'm done."

The sound of Dr. Kaspbrak laughing moved closer to the curtain and Richie almost fell over himself trying to get back to the examining table, throwing himself on the crunchy paper just as Dr. Kaspbrak rapped on the wall next to the thin veil and poked his head inside. 

"Hi there, Mr. Tozier. I'm Eddie Kaspbrak." Dr. Kaspbrak made his way across the floor and extended a hand to greet Richie.

Eddie Kaspbrak was a small man. He was skinny and on the shorter end of the spectrum for average male height, if Richie had to guess. He had short, styled light brown hair and pleasant brown eyes to match. As most doctors Richie had seen, Dr. Kaspbrak was clean shaven and just relatively clean-looking in general, with his yellow and blue plaid shirt and blue slacks. He wasn't wearing a white coat like TV doctors, but he had his ID card affixed to his brown leather belt and there was a stethoscope around his neck.

And, dammit if the guy wasn't attractive.

Dr. Kaspbrak went over to the sink to wash his hands quickly, and then donning some latex-free gloves. "Got into some trouble?"

Richie had to swallow some metallic saliva before he could get out, "Lost a fight with a door."

Dr. Kaspbrak raised an eyebrow and hummed in a non-committal way. He touched one gloved pointer finger to Richie's left cheek, examining the bruise that was blooming under the man's eyes.

"Well, that door really did some number here." Dr. Kaspbrak was gently guiding Richie's head back to look in his nose with a flashlight. It was a compromising position for someone so physically attractive to be sticking their fingers up his nose, but Richie had been in worse positions before.

Dr. Kaspbrak touched the side of Richie's glasses, "Do you mind?" he asked, already removing the frames from Richie's face. "You probably know this already, but you've got a nasal fracture. Generally, they heal on their own after a few weeks. The swelling will go down in a few days, though."

"Some might say the swelling is an improvement to this mug."

Dr. Kaspbrak froze for a second, leaning back to examine Richie's face, hand still planted on Richie's cheek. His hands resumed their inspection up and around Richie's nose. "Well, then, that makes me feel better about possibly disfiguring you when I re-set it, since it will probably be an improvement, and all." Dr. Kaspbrak winked at Richie.

Richie had his retort ready to land, but whatever words he was about to say were lost as Dr. Kaspbrak tugged Richie's nose to the right with an audible crunch.

"Holy-fucking-_SHIT_!" Stan was in there in a heart-beat like his name has been called. Phone held aloft in his hand and mouth open, looking between Richie and the doctor, who, Richie realized, was practically standing in-between Richie's semi-spread legs. Richie's hand clearly covering his freshly set nose."Give a guy a warning next time, would you?"

"It hurts worse when you know it's about to happen."

"It hurt pretty damn bad not knowing, too!" Richie was absolutely not pouting as he reached a hand up to poke at his tender nose.

"I'll write you a prescription for the pain, but, honestly, regular Tylenol will do just as good." Dr. Kaspbrak removed his gloves and tossed them in the trash can. "You'll want to put some ice on it when you can for the next couple of days to bring the swelling down. No more than twenty minutes of icing it at time, though."

Stand was squinting at Richie's nose. "What if it starts bleeding again?"

"You can pick-up some gauze from a pharmacy, but, if you want the honest truth, extra-slim tampons are way more absorbent, so you won't have to change them as frequently. That's up to you, though."

"Stanny, you'll let me borrow your tampons, right? Since you're constantly PMS-ing."

Stan crossed him arms and pulled The Face. The Face was one of Stan's specialties; a mix of bemusement and straight up Disbelief where all the muscles in his face relaxed, save for his eyes that rolled back in his head to look at the ceiling. He often didn't respond to Richie with words, because The Face said it all.

It almost looked like Dr. Kaspbrak rolled his eyes, too. But he just straightened up and clapped his hands together in front of his stomach. "Cathy will be in to finish cleaning you up and give you your discharge papers. Do you have any other questions?" He looked at Richie for a split second, but then turned to Stand, who just shook his head.

Richie's nose was throbbing and he could taste blood dripping down his throat. Dr. Kaspbrak was all cold professionalism and subtle humor, which was the opposite of Richie himself. The off-hand comment who overheard earlier popping into his mind, "What did you think of the show you went to last year?"

Dr. Kaspbrak had the decency to turn a little pink knowing that Richie was listening to the conversation from the nurses' station. He recovered easily enough and shrugged, "I think you're funnier when you're being honest." He looked at Richie square in his face and gave him a smirk. "Goodnight, Mr. Tozier," he said, before disappearing behind the curtain again.

Richie turned to Stan, who was just standing there like he was processing something. Which, honestly, Stan being who Stan was, was probably the case.

"What the fuck does that mean?"

"It means we were right to have you start writing your own bits again."

Richie felt his heart flutter.


	2. I Told The Witch Doctor I Was In Love With You!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So, Eddie Kaspbrak spent over a decade in higher education to find himself wanting to take a rusty scalpel and castrate Richie Tozier.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for the feedback, guys! I don't write these chapters, my ego does. Feed it with reassurance and we'll get somewhere with this fic, surely. 
> 
> This is short, but it was already semi-written and from Eddie's POV. Chapter three is Richie's POV, so this fits better by itself.

"So, I'm in this new relationship." The crowd responded in equal parts cat-calls and laughter from off-screen. Richie Tozier was in the middle of an intimate stage, the club's name _Chuckles_ illuminating the brick behind the comedian in neon pink.

"Yeah, thanks - thank you." Richie put a hand in his jean pocket casually, right hand holding the wireless microphone up enough to speak into. "It's going really well, so far and I just wanted all two-hundred and fifty plus of you to be the firsts to know that I'm gonna marry this one."

The crowd erupted in cheers.

"He doesn't know, of course," Richie said conspiratorially. The crowd was being rowdy, alternating between laughs and cheers, but they quieted down just enough to be able to listen.

"Yeah, I'm still trying to find the perfect time to ask him out on a date." Queue more laughter.

"But I know that we're getting married, for sure."

"He's a doctor, so if this shit falls through," Richie motions to himself, the audience, the club as a whole, "you know, there's some financial stability."

"We met at the ER a few weeks ago. It was odd, because I had always imagined that when I found The One ™, that they would have their fingers shoved up my nose." Richie was fighting back a smile at his own, albeit dumb joke. But, he powered through. "Logically, I didn't have good reasons for that particular image, but, hey, I'm a hopeless romantic that way."

"You know what's the best about falling in love with a doctor? They've seen it all before." Richie hunched over to speak to the audience, like he was sharing a big revelation that he himself had just figured out. "I'm heading into my thirties and my _body is changing." _Richie put on is best pre-pubescent voice as he said the last bit, hand covering his mouth and microphone slightly, and eyes darting across the audience like he was saying something completely taboo.

The bit transformed into Richie's increasing age, and then into some joke about being buried in an all Hawaiian print suit. 

Eddie was in-between his rounds, and he was heading back to the nurses' station to grab another chart when he heard the comedy special. Mary, a level two RN who Eddie normally found semi-endearing, her bubbly personality always landing on him with good humor, was playing it on her phone for a small group of nurses. They didn't register Eddie standing there, peering over their shoulders to look at the tiny image of Richie Tozier coming from the screen, or the way Eddie's eyes bulged out of his head when he connected the very prominent dots about who the comedian was talking about.

"Ohmy_god," _Mary said.

Another RN was sharing in Mary's excitement, "Do you think he's talking about Dr. Kaspbrak!?"

Hospitals, like any other habitat that confined many different people who all worked together for long periods, typically bred a good amount of gossip. Sometimes, it was something small, like when there was someone going around stealing other people's pudding cups from the break room refrigerator. Sometimes, it was about who wasn't going to cut it and was on the verge of Medical Malpractice. But, most of the time, it was about somebody else's personal life, or patients. Since Richie Tozier's visit, it had all been about the comedian. His comedy specials were consistently being played in the break room, or his past radio shows were casually coming through the radio as the nurses' station. The women (and some of the men, too) were all in love. Richie _this_ and Richie _that_.

Eddie, frankly, was Richie Tozier-ed out.

But, now, as Eddie stood there, eyes bugging out of his skull, it looked like Richie Tozier was not quite through with Eddie.

Another nurse piped up, "He has to be! He was his treating doctor. But, like, Dr. Kaspbrak's not gay?"

"How do you know, Jan? He's not married, and I've never heard him mention his dating life, let alone look at any of the female staff here."

"Or the male staff, to be fair."

"He's way too _clean_ to be straight!"

Eddie was going to be physical sick. He was going to vomit right there on the linoleum floor like some common patient they get in of the daily. Instead, though, he swallowed the bile rising in his throat and deflected as only he knew best. With sarcasm. "I'm happily A-sexual, if you all must know."

All four nurses jumped. The newer nurse Eddie didn't know the name of practically took out the charts on the counter with the speed that she spun around.

Mary, however, was smirking. Leaning on the counter, she shook her phone with Tozier's show still playing. "You made an impression on Richie Tozier."

"Comedians get their material from anywhere and everywhere," Eddie said. He was helping the new nurse straighten the charts out, trying to look casual as the nausea came and went in waves. Eddie met her smug look and sighed like he was explaining something very simple. "The guy was punched in the face as the result of a hate-crime, so instead of focusing on that, he turned the event into the opposite."

"C'mon, I think he was being genuine. He obviously found something that he _likes_ about you. He talks about you for a whole three minutes!"

Genuine. Huh.

When Tozier had asked Eddie if he liked the show he had gone to, Eddie's first response was something along the lines of "Sure. A little derivative. But decent, I guess."

Eddie's immediate reaction came from his impression the comedian's older work, though. Tozier had been around for a while now. It was that weird cosmic effect that Hollywood usually produced; when they would spit someone out into the universe and that person would just kind of stick in your mind so that you were at least aware of their existence. It was like that for Eddie, how he had at least known of Richie Tozier before he came out, and when other people were writing his material for him. Mostly jokes that revolved around how straight Tozier was, or what a typical manly man, dude-bro, kind guy that he pretended to be for the public.

Eddie wasn't fond of those jokes. It wasn't until Tozier had come out as gay, and the jokes turned more humble, more true to face that Eddie started to tune in and actually enjoy his work.

So when he answered the man himself in regards to what he thought of his work, Eddie answered truthfully. He liked Tozier's work when he was honest. He seemed naturally funny without the frills and publicity queues.

Right now, though, Eddie Kaspbrak wished that he said he liked him better when he was straight.

Right now, Eddie Kaspbrak was not honest himself, and he wished that a one Richie Tozier wouldn't be so honest about the both of them.

Right now, Eddie Kaspbrak wants to take a rusty scalpel and castrate Richie Tozier for implying things about Eddie himself.

Eddie eyed Mary, then the rest of the nurses. He could feel his face heating up. "Well, I'm glad some of us in the hospital can leave a good impression on our patients." Eddie all but rolled his eyes to the young nurse next to him. "Speaking of, can I get my next chart, _please_?" 

The other nurses all disbursed like they were already on their way to some important places. The new nurse handed him a chart for what looked like a broken arm. Eddie breathed in deep through his nose and held it there for a beat.

Mary peaked at the chart. "Do you miss the OR?"

Eddie let the air exiting his body deflate his lungs, grabbed the chart, and walked away as he replied with a dishonest, "No."


	3. Hospital bound, so you know there will be treatment

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A comedian, an author, a movie star, a fashion designer, and a talent manager all walked into a dinner party. 
> 
> The punchline? A trip to the hospital.

Richie loved when he and his friends were all in the same place. 

It didn't happen often, given that they all carried different work schedules, tour dates, project deadlines...

But when it did happen, it was the absolute Best. 

Richie was still booked in New York for two more sold-out shows. Conveniently, Richie only had a few truly close friends, and Stan was usually where Richie was, give or take a few holidays or local shows. 

Even more conveniently was the fact that two of them, Bill Denbrough and his wife, Audra, held their primary residence in the Big Apple. 

Beverly Marsh, his literal female counterpart, was also in New York for the month prepping for Fashion Week.

Typically, when they were all in the same location at the same time, they did dinner. The best was when it was at one of their own homes and not out at a public restaurant. And by default, it was usually the Denbroughs who hosted in Manhattan, or Richie, who hosted in L.A.. Stan and his wife Peggy lived in L.A., too, but they enjoyed their privacy, and the rumors that would circle around the neighborhood, let alone the paparazzi that might follow them into Stan's little suburban cul-de-sac was a No Go. Beverly's had a small studio apartment in Manhattan, a bungalow in New York, and her primary residence in Chicago, but the only one that could be considered comfortable was the bungalow, and that was just because the view was amazing. 

The downside to their little dinner parties was that only Bill really knew how to cook. Bev wasn't bad at cooking, but her experience was more so in reheating and prepackaged meal prep kits. Audra was a mean sous-chef, which really just meant she was nice company in the kitchen and never let your wine glass get too empty. And Richie... Well, his pallet was of the same caliper as that of a teenager. He lived off of snack foods and take-out, or cigarettes and booze, depending on his general mood. 

That left take-out on more occasions than not. So, it was a true blessing when they got together at the Denbrough's. 

Now to mention that Bill and Audra Denbrough were just genuinely good people. They were the type of people who did annoying amounts of philanthropic work; like founding charities and building water supplies out in some third-world desert. Hell, they'd even told Richie that they were considering adopting, since there were "plenty of kids out there in need of a stable family." They were, essentially, those people; the types that would make a person question their own morals while in the same vicinity.

Long ago, sometime in high school, probably, probably while he was smoking weed after late-night mass in the church parking lot, Richie had resigned himself to the fact that his moral compass was a little glitchy. So, being around Bill and Audra never seemed to effect him the way it did some other folks who already had a preconceived Holy-Than-Thou notion. 

Richie had known Bill since college. "Big Bill," as Richie so lovingly nicknamed him, was almost as tall as Richie himself. With his auburn hair that was always perfectly quaffed, and white-toothed smile, Bill was just one of those Naturally Attractive kind of men. He had oxymoron attributes that were both rugged, like he belonged on an old-timey whaler ship, but also soft enough around the edges that he didn't intimidate women and didn't threaten men. He absolutely did not look like he spent his days hunched over a laptop drafting novels for a living. He also didn't look like he would be the kind of guy to trip over certain consonants, but the massive stutter he had growing up was getting better with age.  
It wasn't until sometime in their Sophomore year in college that they really became friends, though. Richie could pin-point it exactly as the time when Bill had gotten into a heated debate about morality with Peter Dillinger in their Intro to Philosophy class, and simultaneously didn't stutter one single time, and also called Dillinger a Morally Inept Plastic Spoon™ that Richie knew that he would follow Bill Denbrough into the fires of Hell if he asked him to come along. Just two teenage dorks taking on Satan himself in the midst of frat-boys and finals. 

Now, as Richie was, well, Richie, and Bill was a successful writer, Richie would literally fight anyone who would beg the question that he hadn't been sincere in his sentiments. Hollywood was the equivalent of Hell on Earth, thank you.

Bill had gone on to publish six novels, two of which had now become blockbuster successes. He had met his wife Audra when she got cast as the lead lady for the movie adaptation of his book, The Attic, nearly six years ago.

Audra herself was a special kind of human being. She was beautiful, for starters. Beautiful in that old Hollywood kind of way, with gentle features and constant, natural glow about her that lit any room she walked into. She was kind and caring and so Not-Hollywood that it sometimes threw them all off balance when those gossip magazines would say any differently. Like, "Audra Denbrough kicks puppies during visit to local animal shelter." The woman wouldn't even be able to kick an ant without wanting to go on an apology tour.  
And then there was Beverly Marsh. Richie's first and only female love. They'd never slept together or done much more than a quick peck on the lips, but Richie and Beverly had an agreement that if they never found anyone to spend Entirety with, they were each other's fail-safe. 

If Audra was Hollywood Beauty incarnate, Beverly Marsh was the epitome of natural beauty. Her bright red hair cut short, with just enough wave to give the style some body. She was thin, pale, and her bright green eyes sparkled more than they had any right to at any given time. Richie never particularly found women physically attractive, not even Audra. But Beverly Marsh was the exception to most things, anyway. 

Richie arrived stag at Bill and Audra's, not waiting even a second after he rasped on the door before he walked into the town-home. 

It had been about a little over a week since the ordeal that landed Richie in the ER, and the bruising that touched the corner of each eye was turning yellow, but his already large nose still was a little swollen, which made everything more pronounced. 

Beverly was the first one to run over to Richie, hands on his face, in his hair, removing his glasses and worrying over the split skin that was healing across the bridge of his nose.  
They were cut from the same cloth, him and Beverly. Always ready to deflect seriousness with a joke, but never silence. They were both terrible at expressing themselves, and so as she worried over his injury with a scowl and a mask of conflicting emotions, the words "A remarkable improvement" left her mouth easily. 

Richie appreciated Beverly for a lot of things. But above all it was the way she was able to handle him in the way that he needed that made her one of his favorite people.  
"I heard that you didn't press charges." Audra was eyeing him from the kitchen entry, dish towel in hand and blonde hair perfectly done on the top of her head. She wore a motherly concerned look on her face that made her look older than she was, but, if anything, it made her look even more endearing. 

Richie gave a huff of a laugh as he walked over to give her a hug. "Let's be honest, when don't I deserve to get punched in the face?" Audra scrunched her nose as he gave her a wet, sloppy kiss on her cheek. 

"You deserve one at least every hour," said Stan. He must have slipped in right behind Richie, slipping off his coat and hanging it up properly on the coat rack as he pretended to ignore Richie's immediate pout. 

"I do the things I do because I am who I am, mom. Why can't you just accept me!?" 

"I, for one, am about to punch y-y-you, and y-you just got h-here." Bill came out of the kitchen to stand behind his wife, placing a casual hand on her back. 

"Billy boy! Come fret over me instead of these women. You know I need a man's touch and Stanny has been denying me since The Incident." 

Bill rolled his eyes, but came over to give Richie a hug anyway. The pensive look that Bill aimed at his face was not lost on Richie, but it definitely went without words.  
Audra spoke up, anyway. "I mean, Rich, where the hell was your security?" 

Stan gave a humorless laugh, "You mean the ones that he deliberately runs away from?"

Richie shot him the best imitation of The Look that he could muster. "I keep Stan on me at all times. You know how scary he can be. Plus, we've already talked about the reduction in pay to compensate for my personal injuries." 

Stan shoved past Richie's shoulder to go for the kitchen, most likely for the Denbrough carefully supplied libations. "Jerk." 

The awkwardness that was hanging in the air was enough to make Richie's skin crawl. It was like these people who he considered closer to him than any family where staring at his face while simultaneously looking everywhere but at him. 

"Alright, alright. Can we, I don't know, not focus on my face for like, five seconds?" Richie squeezed Bill's ass and the other man jumped away. "I know it will be hard, but, Bill, man, I mean your wife is standing literally right there."

In unison, like it was a part of the script (which, honestly, if God had any sense of humor, it probably was at this point), there was a resounding, "Beep beep, Richie."

"Audra, how much wine did you get? It's going to be one of those nights." 

"Hun, I cleaned out a whole aisle, just in case." 

"Hallelujah." 

oooooOOOooooo

When Richie was little and more impressionable than Adult-Richie, his mother taught him the importance of helping in the kitchen. Cooking was off limits because Richie's undiagnosed ADHD meant a pot left to simmer could sit on the stove for well two hours while he went off and got distracted by, like, a thousand other things and by the time he remembered the food, it was burnt on the bottom and inedible. So, that left helping with post meal clean-up.

Contrary to popular belief, Richie was actually a pretty tidy person. Sure, Stan and the rest of the crew that went on tour with him would beg to differ, judging purely by the state he usually keeps hotel room. But, in his own domain he has a Maggie Tozier approved organizational system and a penance for leaving no dirty dishes in the sink. 

So, long after the last of the wine had been downed and Stan had said his good-nights at the late hour of 9:00PM, Richie found himself in quite companionship with Bill in the kitchen cleaning the remains of their dinner. Bev and Audra were in the office supposedly looking over some of the latest modeled shots from Bev's spring collection, but there was way too much giggling coming from down the hall to indicate that they were taking that little project too seriously. 

Richie could feel the pleasant buzz of alcohol radiating through his body as he ran soap suds over the dishes in the sink to the tune he was humming. Bill was somewhere over his shoulder running a rag across the counters, and he had been trying to say something to Richie for the better part of ten minutes, but the words had gotten lodged in his throat. Richie ignored the attempts, hoping that Bill would give up and cut his losses. 

He should have known better. 

"I spoke to Kenny the other day," Bill said, voice tinged with feigned ease.

"Oh, yeah? Like, Super-Cool-Producer Kenny Banks? " Richie tossed back over his should, just as casual. "He still loaded? In both the physical, metaphorical, and economic senses, I mean, of course."

"What? I-I don't even..." Bill had a habit of pulling this sour kind of look when he was being throw off guard. His mouth would twist up and his nostril would flare a little. Richie knew that this reaction was because stress made Bill's lisp worse and his mouth would refuse to cooperate for a few minutes, but he still got a good kick every time it happened.  
"S-s-sure," Bill finally managed. "He's still producing, i-i-if that's what y-y-you're asking." 

Richie snickered to himself, still facing away from his friend. "Ah, Bill, alas my jokes fail to amuse you." And then a few breaths later. "Good for him, I guess?" Richie could tell that Bill was heading down the path to a bigger conversation that he wanted to have, but he was taking the extremely long road to get to it.

"Well, y-y-yeah. He read that script -- y-y-you remember, the one we talked about over c-c-Christmas? Anyway," Bill said. The New York Times bestselling author was scrubbing at a perfectly clean spot on the counter-top, so he didn't see Richie when he turned around to favor leaning on the sink. "He read it and plans to present it to some of production companies he works with." Bill met Richie's pointed stare, and he smiled sheepishly. "He thinks there's going to be at least three offers to buy the rights." 

"No shit? That's great, bud." 

"Y-y-yeah, I guess it i-is. It's pretty exciting, but, y-you know. Nerve wracking." 

"Well, you know your stuff. Not like this would be your first rodeo for the silver screen."

Bill straightened up, clearing his throat a little as he looked down the hallway when he heard the girls start cackling."Rich," he began, "This i-is the manuscript with that character -- C-c-charlie, y-you remember -- the late night radio guy -- the one that we talked about." 

"You mean the one that you 'loosely' characterized after and based around little ol' me." There was no scorn of bitterness in Richie's voice, just a plain statement of facts.

"That one," Bill confirmed. "So, when Kenny and I were talking about, ya know -- that particular manuscripts, with that particular character--" 

Patience, as a general principle, was not Richie's strong suit. "Bill, not to be insensitive by any means, but can you please spit it the fuck out?" 

"Kenny and I think, y-you know, i-if this actually happens, we think that you need to be the one to play Charlie."

And that was that. 

Not so hard, Bill, Richie thought.

But he didn't say that. Instead, Richie Tozier took a few minute to just stare at Bill Denbrough in the other man's very own kitchen, after he had just cooked a very delicious meal for their group of five, and instead of having a normal, professional conversation about a potential job opportunity that was clearly stressing one of his longest and truest friends to the point of picking every hangnail on his left hand, Richie just stared. 

And after he was done staring, Richie couldn't even humor Bill with a proper response, because he was too busy laughing hysterically. 

Bill, the genuinely good guy that he was, didn't even take offense to being laughed at. Instead he went right into defending the notion. "I mean, y-you've been talking about h-how exhausting touring is and after that s-s-shit last week..." A pause for Bill. A few pats to the knee as he continued laughing for Richie. "Don't y-you think you need to w-w-work on more s-secure projects?" 

There were tears in his eyes by the time he could calm his lungs long enough to speak. "Secure?" 

"Y-you know, like away from the general p-public? Off the cross-country tours for a bit?" 

Richie sunk back into his position against the sink and cleared his throat. Tears and the ghost of a smile still crinkling around the corners of his lips and eyes. "Billy, are you insinuating that I let the homophobes win and run and hide myself away?" He lifted a hand to his heart and tsk'd. "Did Elton John ever turn his bedazzled gay tail and run in the face of scrutiny? I am appalled." 

"He did almost OD a few times, s-s-so I don't know if y-y-you want to c-compare..." Bill shook his head to get back on track. "You know that's not what I'm s-s-saying. I'm s-saying that y-you're so down and dirty with the p-public all the time. Which is great! It's just that I-I don't think you r-realize that you're a p-pretty big name now and you s-say some pretty hefty s-s-shit s-sometimes and not everyone is going to be a fan of y-yours." Bill went back to picking at the hangnail on his hand and Richie was about to go and help him if he didn't stop. "I'm s-saying, Richie, that maybe broadening your h-horizons and doing different p-projects instead of this free and wild on the road s-shit you've been doing will give you some variation. Like a little vacation, only you'd s-still be working. Burn out and assault and battery are real c-c-career killers." 

"Look at you, Big Bill. Getting off a good one," Richie said, smirking. Bill gave him a look from across the counter and threw the dirty rag straight at the comedian's face.  
It missed it's mark, marginally. Richie let it hit his chest with a soggy slap; looked dumbly down at it slipping down his button-up, and then pealed the rag away from his shirt. He tossed it once, twice in his hand as he rounded the corner of the marble countertop. "Are you sure there isn't a little bit of selfishness in your suggestion that the incredibly funny, famous heart-throb Richie Tozier star in your next block-buster? Trying to pimp out one of your best friends to your big name Hollywood producers?" Richie wiggled his eyebrows and tossed the rag in his hand, considering Bill. What he was not considering, though, was turning from a semi-famous stand-up and radio host to some floozy actor. He wasn't desperate, for god sake. 

"Don't you f-f-fucking dare." 

It was a series of bad moves from there. 

Obviously, Richie threw the rag. 

And, obviously, it missed its mark. 

Bill was a quick little fucker and dashed around the island. He then proceeded to chase after Richie, who had done a toss and dodge of his own, jumping over the island and making it to the other side with just enough time to grab the wet and dirty sponge in the sink. 

"You're an animal," Bill breathed, and then a second later he was chasing Richie up and over the island, too.

Richie moved too quickly to the side, and by the time Bill had propelled himself towards the lanky body holding the sponge, Richie was gone and all that was left was the stack of clean dishes piled on the side of the sink. In the precarious position at the top of the stack was the extremely expensive, extremely delicate and extremely, extremely sharp Japanese fillet knife Audra had purchased in actual Japan. It was also the first to begin its decent towards the stone kitchen floor when the dish tower came crumbling down from the impact. 

"Oh, shit."  
Richie went for Bill, and Bill went for the knife. 

Hind sight is always 20/20, and going for the knife would probably not be listed on Bill's Wikipedia page as one of his Super-Great-Ideas. 

But he did it anyway.

And the dishes all broke on the floor in great white shards. 

The knife, however, survived. It was nestled safely in the palm of Bill's now bleeding hand by the time Richie knelt with several crunches next to his friend. 

Bill wasn't looking at it, deliberately. His face was scrunched up and he was staring at Richie. "Is it bad?"

Richie, on the other, couldn't look away as he went for the handle. "Well," he said. He quickly peeled the knife away from Bill's grip and the other man let out a howl. "It ain't good."

"Fuck," Richie heard Audra shout at the same time that her delicate penny-loafers came crunching beside the duo on the ground to check her husband's wounds. 

Beverly was somewhere in the background saying, "I'll call the cab."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it's funny, because it was just october and this was still a "new fic" and the fandom was booming and then all of the sudden it's april and, like, i never actually left this fandom. i've still been reading fics and stuff (btw, that martian au i binged read last night? i am OBSESSED). 
> 
> is anyone still here?
> 
> excuse this chapter (actually, just excuse the whole fic. idk what i'm doing). 
> 
> did i proof read? no.  
did i just write this mess over the last few hours? yeah.  
am i still thinking about that martian reddie au? heck yeah.  
also don't ask me why stan or bev are in this chapter because they like literally provide no additional development to the overall story besides character introduction. i just love them and want to feel their presences.


	4. Some just whine and complain, in bed at the hospital

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In case of emergencies, please tell Eddie Kaspbrak to fucking breathe.

Let the record show that Eddie Kaspbrak is a fucking good doctor.

Really.

He was top of his class in pre-med at the University of Southern Main, and graduated Magna Cum Laude from Boston University School of Medicine. He road through his residency at Mount Sinai Hospital with the tactical ease of someone who, quite literally, slept, breathed and shit for no other reason but to function for his job. 

It took him just six months to make a name for himself as a promising young neurosurgeons when he got the job at New York-Presbyterian. Successfully removing not one, but two undiagnosed craniopharyngioma tumors from an eleven year old patient has that effect on your career, after all.

Eddie was a _good_ doctor. 

He could convince himself that he knew the theories and the methods and understood the research the same as the best of his peers. Hell, before the shit hit the fan he had helped publish some of that research.

He was good _doctor_.

He had given up a life of his own to dedicate himself to treating other people's problems. He was only thirty-two years old and had quickly stuck himself in the position to either sit in on or led more complex trauma surgeries than some of his professors in school.

"I am a _good_ doctor," Eddie said to the cold bathroom sink. He clutched at the white porcelain until his knuckles were a matching color. Subconsciously, he hopped that one of them would break and release the tension building up inside of him.

"I am a good _doctor_," Eddie said to his reflection in the mirror, haggard and pale and staring back without refute.

His therapist told him that when he started to experience one of these episodes that it was important to ground himself to reality.

Reality, in this case, was the first floor men's restroom tucked between radiology and the ER. The rush of the floor outside echoing around in the small room. The clipboard from examining room ten tossed somewhere on the blue linoleum floor. 

_...6, 5, 4...._

Breathe in... Through the nose...Hold... Try to keep calm....

_...3, 2, 1...._

Exhale... Out the mouth... Let your chest deflate.... Try to keep calm....

Fifteen years of psychosomatic-asthma had made Eddie immune to the breathing exercises. After all, mindful breathing for Eddie was like codeine to a pill addict; they just lost their medicinal effect from habitual abuse.

Keep calm, breathe, find the placebo he kept on hand in the guise of albuterol.

Keep calm, take the puff of condensed air into his lungs, hold, breathe.

He knew the routine so well that the practice made his hand inch towards his empty pocket.

The mantra had been Eddie's improvisation when the breathing alone didn't work. He would say it to himself in the morning as he dragged his body out of bed, willing himself to feel grateful for still having his license.

He would say it to himself while he wrote his discharge notes, willing his hand to stop shaking while he signed his name off on the diagnosis.

He would say it to himself while he did the bogus breathing exercises, alone, trying not to be sick in the bathroom after he had worked himself into a temper tantrum because fucking Gene Durbin was paged over the com-system.

They paged Gene fucking Durbin while Eddie stood there in the hallway as trauma bay two pulled in some unlucky fuck who was in the losing side of a literal car crash. Of which the initial contusion promising some form of a TBI that had Eddie's finger twitching. And fucking Gene Durbin would probably diagnose it as a minor concussion because Gene Durbin was a fucking idiot, in Eddie's honest opinion.

He had seethed his way to the nearest bathroom to keep from getting involved. He did his breathing exercises; he did the mantra, both of which never really, truly, ever worked. Not in the six months since he adopted them.

They were bullshit, but Eddie did them like the dutiful patient that he is and for fear of the alternative.

"If you're so great, why can't you get your shit together, Doc?" Eddie said to his reflection, which snarled back with a look that matched the contempt in his voice.

He gathered himself, the clipboard, and stole a quick glance in the mirror to make sure he could pass as being _fine _before he unlocked the door and stormed down the hallway back to the ER examining rooms.

They had gotten better over the months -- the panic attacks.

He couldn't thank his therapist for helping him get out of his funk, but he did thank being allowed to work. To feel some semblance of his former routine was enough to keep him grounded, _thanks but no thanks to your breathing exercises, Dr. Shaw_. 

He could count on one hand the number of times he felt like going to the top of the hospital to throw himself off over the last eight weeks, and, though Eddie wasn't a psychiatrist, he felt like that was a great achievement.

The mess from the car accident was nowhere to be found as he went past the emergency transport doors and away from the trauma bays.

It had taken the better part of four months, but Eddie could say that he had almost gotten back into the swing of the ER. And, with a great amount of caution, Eddie would almost say that, on a good day, he was on the verge of being totally himself again.

Were the regular walk-in ER cases the best? No, not really. A few stitches, a lot of common colds, and more than enough heart attack scares, but it kept him busy enough to not mind the work.

The four months that he had been back down in the ER had been a whirlwind of denial and frustration. The fact that he was almost resigning himself to his destiny of being treated like a prescription jockey for the uninsured had become almost palatable.

That is, until he had become a bit in some stupid comedy show.

It wasn't enough that Eddie was trying to crawl his way back to the trauma unit, but then that prick Richie Tozier really had to go and try to drag some other dirty skeletons out of his closet to weigh him down.

He could hear what the nurses and admin staff said behind his back for the last six months:

_Poor Dr. Kaspbrak, he hardly even consults on surgery cases anymore!_

_Poor Dr. Kaspbrak, he must miss the O.R._

_Poor Dr. Kaspbrak, I wonder if he has a wife at home to take care of him; he looks lonely._

And thanks to Richie Tozier, for the past week the whispers down the hall had increased to include some favorite hits, like:

_You know that Tozier bit was about Dr. Kaspbrak?_

_You know, Dr. Kaspbrak doesn't really talk about his personal life._

_You think Dr. Kaspbrak is gay?_

Eddie loved being a doctor. He loved the rush of the hospital, the feeling of taking something apart and putting it back together better than before. To diagnose and fix things was like a incomparable high that hit all of your nerves at once a lit your body on fire.

But what he loved above all else was to be able to do his damn job and not have to worry about being "Poor Dr. Kaspbrak." Which now had turned into "Poor -is he gay?- Dr. Kaspbrak," the hospital's very own walking train wreck.

He was already like an wounded animal locked in a very clinical cage for observation. And now it was like he had developed purple spots for everyone to ogle at him even more.

And for a solid week, Eddie knew that he had been walking about like a pissed off lion ready to bite anyone's head off if they even so much as breathed near him.

Because, like, who the fuck does that? Who meets someone for ten minutes and then turns around and uses the encounter as a fucking joke?

Richie Tozier, apparently. That's who.

The whole encounter was quite forgettable, to Eddie, at least. The low-priority ER patients that Eddie had the pleasure of being assigned for the last 120 days were nothing more than individual jobs that you had to assess, complete, and then discharge without so much as a second thought, after all. Eddie Kaspbrak did not have time to have a personal life or personal interest because he was already a committed man to his work.

And Richie Tozier made a joke out of it.

Out of Eddie himself, really.

Eddie liked to fix actual problems, but yet he was finding himself getting stuck with these stupid issues like depression and his own sexuality.

And Gene fucking Durbin taking Eddie's concussion cases.

And Richie fucking Tozier telling jokes that involved Eddie.

It was a lot to digest at once, and he was finding it increasingly more difficult to resign himself to go back and tell the moms of the sixteen year olds who were exhibiting paranoia, chest pains, and cold sweats that their child's EKG was fine, but that they were just fucking high as a kite.

Eddie didn't realize it, but it must have been either still doing his controlled breathing or seething again, because when he got to the nurses' station Cathy was eyeing him with that mild look of disinterest that she typically reserved for when she was actually interested in something.

It felt uncomfortable on his face, tugging at all the wrong angles, but Eddie put on his best professional face. "Room 10 is ready to be discharged," he said to the second nurse behind the counter, ignoring Cathy. "Pink eye, so make sure to--" Eddie paused, the sound of the hauntingly familiar laugh echoing off the walls and around Eddie's head. "Uh, make sure to --" It shouldn't be that distracting. Really. Eddie was a professional. He should just get his crap together and ignore it.

But Eddie also just had a fucking panic attack in the men's restroom. He wasn't in the best state of mind.

"Can you please turn that off?" He could feel his grip tighten on the counter as he closed his eyes and breathed in...

"Sir?" The nurse stared at him with big concerned eyes.

"Richie Tozier," he said plainly, rubbing at his temples.

The nurse looked from Eddie, to Cathy, back to Eddie. She was a fresh face to the ER that probably was pleasantly unaware of Eddie's reputation as a loose cannon, just the usual amount of nervousness that came from a new recruit. "Uh, what?"

Eddie opened his eyes to look at the nurse, ready to snap when the laugh rang out in the hall again, and he had to turn around to scan for the source. He was met with the white curtain of an examining room, and the sound of voices, one of which was recently very familiar.

"Who's in there?" Eddie spun back around, still pointing to the examining room.

"Uh, let me check..." The nurse jumped at Eddie's question, took a moment to process the words, and then started to shuffle through the papers and clipboards to pull the one with the examining room's number from the pile. "A Mr. William Denbrough," she said as she held out the clipboard to Eddie.

Eddie, for his part, deflated against the counter. Denbrough was a familiar name. It was one of those names that sounded like he knew of it, but couldn't exactly place why.

"Oh," Eddie said. He looked back at the whiteness of the curtain. "It sounded like-"

"-Like Mr. Tozier himself?" Cathy still had that look of mild-interest as she clacked away at the keyboard of her desktop computer. She eyed him from over the rim of her thin framed glasses. "Mr. Denbrough brought in an entourage of people with him. These famous types can never do anything alone, I suppose, even when there is a two person limit." She clicked her tongue in disapproval. "Better back here than making a scene in the waiting room, I suppose."

The other nurse made a little O with her mouth, realization working the gears in her head. Eddie's gears were about to combust.

"Who has that room?" Eddie made to grab the chart from the nurse, but he nurse held it a little closer to her chest.

"Uh," The nurse was looking at Cathy, who had gone back to her data-entry. "Dr. Kent."

"Give it to me."

The young nurse was looking back and forth between Cathy the Charge Nurse and the Eddie the Doctor, the latter of which was glaring at the chart in her hands. Cathy made a noise in the back of her throat, but was otherwise ignoring the conversation."What do I tell Dr. Kent?"

The nurses' grip on the chart went slack as she realized that Cathy wasn't about to intervene, and Eddie grabbed it quickly. "To fuck off," he said, turning on his heel and away from the nurses' station.

It wasn't that Eddie had any real yearning to see the comic again. In fact, over the last few weeks he had seen more of Richie Tozier's image and voice being projected on every electronic device known to man than he had ever desired or expected.

No, Eddie took the chart and stomped his way to the examining room with a misplaced aggravation that his therapist would probably try to pin on his fucking _trauma_ or his feelings of having a _lack of control_ in his life.

Fuck that.

He had enough shit going on in his life, and if Richie Tozier could drag Eddie into his show and then waltz back into Eddie's territory, then Eddie was allowed to use Richie Tozier as the catalyst to release his own pent-up frustration.

This was what Eddie told himself as pulled the curtain back to the examining room with more force than necessary, anyway.

Richie Tozier was in the middle of blowing up a rubber glove, feet propped on the examining table where the actual patient -- Mr. Denbrough? -- sat clutching a blood soaked dishrag.

All eyes were on Eddie, and if only moments before Eddie had been churning all of the fire and brimstone that had been threaten to burst through his skin through his veins, the cool air of the examining room mixed with the _oh-fuck, what have I gotten myself into_ feeling in his gut doused the flames quite quickly. 

The glove in Tozier's hands went flying as it deflated its way across the room and landed with the weak splat on the linoleum.

_Well, shit, _Eddie thought.

"Well shit," The comedian said. The other man at least had the decency to remove his shoes from the examining table as he reached up to adjust his glasses.

Eddie was vaguely aware of the three other people in the room, but his brain was short circuiting and he was finding it difficult to formulate words in his brain.

Tozier, on the other hand, recovered quickly as he said to Eddie, "If it isn't Dr. K. Fate really is a marvelous bitch." To the rest of the company he said, "Dr. K here patched me up when, well, you know..." He looked back at Eddie with what could have been a bashful smile -- or maybe a grimace -- the corners of his eyes crinkling with the early signs of wrinkles.

The sobering reality of the position that Eddie himself had but himself in was enough to give him vertigo as he walked into the room fully. It was almost claustrophobic with five bodies crammed into the 10x10 space, and Eddie was finding it difficult to breathe again. 

_... 10, 9, 8.... _

Eddie could feel all eyes on him, all four pairs looking at him, looking back at them like a deer in headlights.

_...7, 6..._

No fucking way was Eddie going to back out of this. They were on his home turf.

_... 5, 4..._

Eddie was a good doctor, after all. He could to this.

...3, 2...

Game on, Richie Tozier.

_...1...._

"Hello, Mr. Tozier. Glad to see you're healing nicely." Eddie was almost surprised how smooth and calm his voice rattled out of his mouth. He didn't extend his hand to Tozier, but he did for the actual patient, Denbrough, who had to accept the handshake with his left hand. "Hi Mr. Denbrough. I'm Eddie Kaspbrak."

"Nice to meet you Dr. Kasp-p -"

"Eddie's fine."

"Eddie," Bill said with a smile.

Eddie noticed the way Denbrough's eyes flashed over to Richie, who was looking increasingly more uncomfortable behind his glasses, but hiding it well under his smirk.

If Eddie wasn't so damn uncomfortable, he would almost feel a little smug that the comedian was acting -- bashful? -- shy? -- uncomfortable himself, at the very least.

He could do this. Eddie was capable of doing his actual job, while simultaneously... Doing what, exactly? What was Eddie even doing there? Why did he want the room? Did he have a plan to begin with, or did Richie Tozier's voice put some kind of rage induced spell on him that made reality bend.

Exactly what was supposed to happen? Was Eddie going to just say something like, "Hey, dickhead, were you trying to out me?" or "You're so hungry for a few laughs that you have to drag random people in to feed your ego?"

Why was Eddie even offended? Wasn't it supposed to flattering to be so memorable to make an appearance, and a rather nicely recalled appearance, in some comedian's story time?

Richie Tozier hadn't done anything malicious to Eddie, but that really wasn't the point.

Maybe Eddie _was_ misplacing his feelings.

But, he had 30 seconds to digest those feelings while he made his way to the sink and a full audience waiting for him to come up with something good.

"Full room you've got here, Mr. Denbrough," He started, lamely. "Policy is a max. of two guest back with the patient. I think you're going to give one of the nurses a heart attack."

He scrubbed his hands for a few seconds longer than necessary to calm his nerves before making his way back over to the examining table, green non-latex gloves in hand, and actual managed a kind smile for the actual patient. 

The blonde woman in Denbrough's entourage let out a quick rush of air from her mouth, grabbing Denbrough's shoulder while waving the other one madly. "Oh, my gosh. I am so sorry." Denbrough was pulling a face at -- his wife? Had to be the wife's -- jerking movement of his body as she let out apologies. "We didn't know, the reception desk was getting nervous because the cameras and we all just crammed into the cab not thinking."

The other woman, a redhead with a calmer air about her went to Denbrough's rescue, lightly guiding Mrs. Denbrough off of her husband. "We can go wait back outside?" She said to Tozier, who was looking constipated.

"No, no. It's alright. Probably less of a risk back here than out there."

Uncouth wasn't something that Eddie was prone to demonstrate while on the clock. This moment in time seemed to beg that question entirely as his skin prickled and his gut knotted.

"What happened here?" He unwrapped the dish cloth to reveal a long gash down the palm of Denbrough's right hand. It didn't look too deep, so there wouldn't be any nerve damage. But it still was pumping blood and would need some stitches to seal the skin.

"I tried to catch a knife."

Eddie raised his eyebrow and leaned back a little to look at Bill. "Do you general try to catch knives on a Wednesday night? Because, if you do, I would probably go ahead and advise against that, for the future."

"Uh, no. It fell off the counter and I just wasn't thinking and..." Bill's eye darted to Richie again. Eddie knew this look well. Only, it was typically reserved for patients with foreign objects lodged in their rectum, not a bleeding hand. "I tried to catch the knife."

Eddie hummed. "You're going to need stitches," he said evenly. Eddie rolled his stool over to the counter so he could grab the gear that he needed, returning with a rolling table and sat across from Bill, reaching for the other man's hand again.

Eddie cleaned the open wound, putting a numbing agent on Denbrough's skin after and threading the disturbingly hook-shaped needle as the agent took effect. Eddie started in with the first stitch. He was committed now, and they had about ten minutes before Eddie was finished.

Ten minutes for Eddie to get whatever it was gnawing at his chest out in the air.

"Some of the nurses saw your show, Mr. Tozier," he began. He stuck the needle back into Denbrough's flesh and could feel the other man tense under the hand that was steadying his wrist.

Not that Eddie was looking anywhere but at his work, he could still feel the rest of the group shift with the atmosphere. Eddie felt Tozier shift if his chair and let out a airy laugh. He almost pictured him rubbing at his neck awkwardly or adjusting his glasses on his face to do something with his hands, just like in his stand-up shows.

"Did you?"

"Involuntarily, yes."

"And?" Eddie could tell Richie was leaning forward, finding a comfortable place on the side of Eddie's head to stare at. "Do you accept my proposal?"

"For marriage or a date?"

"Well, I mean we could just skip the formalities..."

Eddie looked up at Richie, piercing the other man with the coldest look he could muster. His steady hand freezing for all of a second before he returned his physical attention back to the stitches.

Ah, there it was. If Eddie had forgotten why he was so annoyed by this man he just got smacked back to reality with that quip.

"Are you just assuming I'm gay or is this a regular thing for you? To hit on anything with a pulse."

"My gaydar is spectacular.

"Says the man that spent the majority of his career playing straight."

Richie snapped his mouth shut so fast Eddie almost wondered if he bit his tongue. He also spent a second too long looking at said mouth, and Eddie's stomach clenched painfully.

"Dr. K, are you coming for my brand of exclusively cheap jokes and pot shots?" 

"Well, considering I'm a part of the show now I think I should be getting something. Royalties, maybe?"

Tozier let out a bark of a laugh that made Eddie's shoulders jump. Luckily, he hadn't been mid-stitch to his friend's hand.

Tozier asked incredulously to the room, "Am I being extorted? Bev, is this extortion?"

"No, Mr. Tozier, I'm not extorting you," Eddie said with a little shift of his shoulder not handling the needle. "And I would never dare imitate your brand of humor. But, you did use me as a part of your show without permission. Which, if you're interested in knowing -- or care, for that matter -- as been following me around in my place of business ever since. I feel like some restitution is a logical thought process."

Richie Tozier was a pale man. For celebrity living in L.A., it was almost like the sun ignored him completely, save for the smattering of freckles across the bridge of his healing nose. Right now, though, under the florescent and Eddie's words, Richie Tozier was turning a sickly shade of white.

Looking up, Eddie said directly to Tozier, "Next time you want to make a joke that involves someone else, without their consent, I would think long and hard about the ramification for the other person. We're not all ready to be as out and proud as you are, Mr. Tozier."

It was like the air and sound and life had all been sucked out of the small examining room as Eddie finished stitching up Denbrough's hand. Once finished, he tied the thread and cut the excess off with some scissors before wiping the sealed wound and rewrapping it with some gauzes.

Turning to the actual patient, who was staring at Eddie like he was still a chapter behind, Eddie cringed as he felt his own dignity slipping quickly."Mr. Denbrough, you need to keep that clean. Re-banged every twelve hours or as regularly as you feel you need. You can use basic peroxide and Neosporin."

"Rich?" The redhead was placing a hand on Tozier's shoulder, as the man openly gaped at Eddie.

"Look, man --" Tozier began, but Eddie was about to code if he didn't get out of the stifling room.

With a rush of movement that he prayed was not as panicked as he felt, Eddie got up, cutting off the other man. "I'm finished here," he stated to the room.

Eddie removed his gloves definitively; the snap of the rubber echoing in the small, white room as he escaped out of the thick, white curtains and into the blinding sterile, white hallway. 

He felt like vomiting as he all but threw the chart at the nurses' station, gagging as he shuffled down the hallway and back toward the men's restroom to do his bullshit breathing exercises.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> my freshman year of college i took a writing composition class and my teacher was the freaking bomb? OK. She was scary as hell and only, like, twelve out of the thirty-something of us made it through the entire semester, but she was dope AF.  
Anyway, she always stressed the importance of outlining. So much so that she literally spent six weeks making us do outlining exercises.  
Six.  
Fucking.  
Weeks.  
of outlining. 
> 
> I hated it. I deliberately did not give two shits about it because at nineteen I was like, fuck outlining, ya know? Who needs it. 
> 
> Oh how wrong i was. if i could go back and wring 19 year old me's freaking neck and make myself pay attention, maybe i wouldn't be struggling to write meaningless fanfiction at age 24. 
> 
> This chapter was difficult to write because 1) we're on chapter 4 and THERE STILL ISN'T A LOT HAPPENING? WTF? and 2) i 110% wanted to write the NEXT chapter first and was like, really? do we need to have a chapter 4? can't we just like skip to chapter 5 where things start to happen? and 3) life.  
i'm also lazy. 
> 
> BUT - i'm not so lazy that i can't compile a half-ass list of some of my favorite Reddie fanfics.  
This is for you, ItsyBitsyBatsySpider...  
This is not comprehensive, and I could think of like five other fics that I just forget the names of, but if I remember I'll add them in.  
And In no particular order: 
> 
> Anything - breakingthesun (because I love Richie whump. i've also read this like 10 times. sue me)
> 
> let me name the stars for you - playedwright (because... well, you all know)
> 
> Stay for the Storm - inoubliable (BECAUSE YES. BECAUSE MY COMMUTE TO AND FROM WORK USUALLY REVOLVES AROUND A ROCKSTAR RICHIE TOZIER AU THAT DOESN'T EXSIST AND I AM NOT COMPETENT ENOUGH TO WRITE. BECAUSE I LOVE THIS FIC AND YOU ALL NEED TO READ IT)
> 
> It's Not My Fault! - shanisafan
> 
> I Heart Derry - lonerredballoon 
> 
> Beep-Beep, Eddie Kaspbrak - Rango
> 
> the years go by like days - georgiestauffenberg
> 
> not quite young - saintsrow2 (and literally everything else by santsrow2)


End file.
